


Lavender

by The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Melancholy, Mild Hurt/Comfort, but only mildly, what even is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23512306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting/pseuds/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting
Summary: It is a little known fact that the air in heaven smells like flowers.Or, in other words, sometimes when he is with Aziraphale, Crowley finds himself longing with every fibre of his being for something he dare not even name.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> Started writing this yesterday. Had a panic attack. Needed to distract myself. Bon appetit.

It is a fact, little known throughout the universe, that the air in Heaven smells of flowers. Even those beings who inhabit Heaven are, for the most part, unaware of it. You do not notice oxygen while you are still breathing it. You do not perceive gravity so long as it keeps your feet stuck firmly to the ground beneath you. And you do not notice the scent of the air in heaven when it has surrounded you since creation.

To be specific, it smells of lavender. At least, that is the closest approximation to the scent that has ever been found. Distinctive in an instant. Heady and relaxing, fresh and at the same time achingly nostalgic without any given reason.

It is an even lesser known fact throughout the universe, that those who dwell for any length of time within Heaven’s immaculate confines start to smell of lavender too. It permeates their skin, their clothes, their corporeal shells and right through to the very core of their true being. It clings to them wherever they go and in whatever form they take, like perfume on a woman, like the residue of a particularly aromatic bubble bath. It is only, really, the demons of Hell, the former angels themselves, who know this fact.

On those angels who have scarcely left heaven since the world’s beginning, the scent is strong enough to be overpowering. It is so strong that even some, very sensitive and highly attuned humans, can pick it up. To them it smells no more than the faintest, unexpected breath of sweet air. To a demon, it boarders on nauseating, enough to make one wretch. Amongst those aforementioned demons, it has become both warning signal and point of sneering amusement. It is split second’s advance notice that the enemy is near. It is an ongoing, truthful, joke amongst the inner circles of Hell that, for all he likes to act like his shit would smell of roses, the Archangel Gabriel fucking reeks of lavender.

The longer one spends away from heaven, the less overwhelming the scent becomes. It fades or dissipates over the decades and centuries until it is little more than a vague yet ever present aura around them. Few angels have ever spent so long away from Heaven without actually Falling, as Aziraphale has.

He has been around humanity for so long now, has been corrupted or bettered or simply altered by it, that the scent of that heaven blessed air barley lingers at all. Even the most attuned of demons wouldn’t smell it unless they were alone with him and in exceedingly close quarters. And they should both be thankful for small mercies because if that weren’t true, their little body switch would never have succeeded as it did.

There is of course only one demon, only one being, who ever gets close enough to know it is still there. Even then, Crowley doesn’t notice it most of the time. Only in their most intimate of moments, when they are as close as they can be without mingling their very atoms, does he smell it. His face will be pressed against the side of Aziraphale’s neck. Or his lips brushing the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist. Or his forehead resting in the gap between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades as he holds the angel closer, closer, just to remind himself that they are both their, both real. (It’s not lost on Crowley that when he is the one embracing Aziraphale and not the other way around, when his long limbs bend naturally to better entwine himself around the angel’s form, his forehead comes to rest at the exact epicentre of where, deep within Aziraphale’s core, his wings would start to blossom.)

In those moments, Crowley will sometimes inhale. Strictly speaking he doesn’t need to do that at all. But breathing is a reflex apparently inherent to all beings, celestial, demonic or mortal, whether or not it serves any function. He will inhale and, for the most transitory of seconds, the lavender scent will be there. He inhales and for that second, could be somewhere else. He is reminded, unwilling, of sun kissed gardens awash with light, the first crackle of static from an impending thunderstorm sparking in the air. He is reminded of something so pure that he can scarcely believe his hands do not burn where they touch the angel’s skin.

(If Crowley had thought about it seriously – and he didn’t, absolutely did not do that regularly, only when he is in his quietest, deepest moments – but if he had thought about it, he might be given to wondering ~~worrying~~ _wondering_ what that meant he might still smell like. What scent had imprinted itself upon his being? What odour of Hell had crept up with him? As far as Crowley was concerned, Hell smelt of nothing so much as sulphur, and damp and rot and other things he didn’t care to name. He might even, briefly and only briefly, be given to marvelling at how Aziraphale could stomach it. If he had cared to voice those thoughts aloud, to indulge in free and open conversation with his beloved – and he wouldn’t do that because why break the habit of an eternity – then Aziraphale would have been able to put his mind at ease. Crowley did not smell like sulphur, or damp, or rot. Mostly, he smelt like his plants, perhaps with the faintest and not unenjoyable tinge of motor oil and car seat leather from the Bentley. Sometimes, in those very same moments of tenderness and intimacy as Crowley did NOT spend considerable time lingering upon, he smells like something else entirely. He smells like sugar at the precise moment it caramelises. He smells like the finest, scarcest of wines freshly uncorked after years of careful, almost _sacred_ storage. He smells, in short, like temptation. Which is, Aziraphale thinks, a demon’s prerogative.)

Crowley says nothing at all on the subject. It remains that least well-known fact of all, on virtue of being known by only one being and perhaps the Almighty herself, that sometimes Crowley will hold close the love he does not, should not, deserve, and inhales. Sometimes he finds it arousing. Usually he just finds it a comfort. Some days, some dark and troubled days, he finds it painfully, crushingly lonely; it makes his very bones ache from missing a home he scarcely even remembers having at this stage.

Aziraphale rolls over. He’s not sleeping, not exactly. But his eyes are closed and he has drifted away somewhere in his headspace that Crowley could follow, but chooses not to out of privacy. The angel’s eyes are closed at any rate. Still, he wriggles slightly, shifting their forms until he can rest his forehead against Crowley’s, brush their noses together even in his not-quite-sleeping state. Crowley’s answering laugh must tickle across his face, but he doesn’t stir.

It is a blessing then, truly a blessing for however long as She chooses to ordain it, that Crowley has been gifted Aziraphale. The miracle that is his skin, the divine grace that is that lingering waft of lavender, that is more than a token of home. It _is_ home. The only home that Crowley will ever need.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah it's now my headcanon now that demons smell like whatever will tempt the person they are nearest to. I has severley late to this hype train, so go easy on my first Good Omens fic.


End file.
